


Punch Drunk

by midnighteverlark



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Bisexual Mike Wheeler, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, First Aid, Gay Will Byers, House Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, they're about 17 in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-07-02 05:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighteverlark/pseuds/midnighteverlark
Summary: Will didn't know the punch at the party was spiked. He drank way too much of it, and when he manages to slice his palm open, Mike is the one who gets him home and cleans up the wound.They've both had a lot to drink. And Will has an idea. If they're both drunk, then they probably won't remember any of this by tomorrow... right? So, really, there's no harm in making a confession or two. Even if Mike is mad at him, they will have both forgotten it by tomorrow, and everything will go back to normal.But the best laid plans... well. You know the rest.





	1. Band-Aids over Bullet Wounds

The music is too loud. Will’s head hurts. His temples throb with every heavy beat; they feel swollen, and he brings his fingertips to the sides of his head. His right hand leaves behind a sticky streak.

That’s right. The cut. That’s what he’s doing.

His left hand drags along the wall as Will continues his search for Mike. He tucks the palm of his right hand against his stomach. Dark smears spread over the fabric of his tee shirt wherever his hand touches.

It was a glass bowl. There were M&Ms in it. Some girl stumbled and knocked it off the counter with an elbow and it smashed spectacularly on the kitchen linoleum. Will just wanted to help. But the crowd of concerned party-goers was too thick, and someone bumped him as he reached for a shard. And now it’s time to go home.

But first he has to find Mike.

But Mike could be anywhere. Hell, he might even be on the dance floor. He had about as much to drink as Will... probably. Will wonders if Mike knew the punch was spiked. It was so sweet and fruity that he didn’t even realize until several cups in. Must’ve been strong stuff, though. He pauses at a corner and waits for a ripple of dizziness to pass. Yup. Strong stuff.  How many cups did he even have?

It’s not his fault, though. He hadn’t even planned on drinking anything tonight. He didn’t even really _want_ to come to this party. But everyone else was going and they all said it would be fun. Ha. Yeah, this is fun. His head hurts, his hand hurts...fun, yeah. The punch _must_ have been spiked. Where the hell is Mike?

A hand lands on Will’s shoulder and he turns. Mike is smiling, but his face turns serious when he sees the blood. “Hey, Wi- woah. Shit. What happened to you?” He pulls them over to a corner. “Are you okay?”

“Cut myself on some glass,” Will says. He lifts his palm, unfolds it, and winces as the half-dried blood cracks and reopens the wound. His hand goes back to gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Mike is frowning. “Are you drunk?”

“It was the punch,” Will protests. It’s not _his_ fault. “How was I s’posed to know?”

“How much did you have?”

“Can we go?” His head pounds. He licks his lips with a half-sigh. “Look, can - can we just go?”

They’re already on their way to the front of the house. Mike spots the crush of bodies blocking the hallway, playing some drunken variation on Blind Man’s Bluff, and turns them around to head for the back door instead. Will tries to pull away, saying something about his coat. Mike vanishes for a few minutes to get it. By the time he reappears, carrying both of their coats, Will feels a little better. Or maybe he’s just getting used to the slight tilt in the floor. Maybe his body is already processing the alcohol? He doesn't know. In any case, he’s plenty stable enough to walk by himself, thank-you-very-much, but he doesn’t feel like protesting when Mike snugs an arm around the shoulders of his padded winter coat.

It’s snowing.

The car is cold. It was toasty-warm when the Party pulled up in front of the already-bustling house, hours ago before the sun went down.

The Party.

“How’re the others gonna get home?” Will says as he gets his seatbelt to click on the third try.

“Ran into them on the way to get our jackets.” Mike starts the car. “They can get a ride from Emmeline.”

Will nods and grimaces at the window. Emmy Stevens is one of Lucas’s acquaintance-friends; both of them found themselves in the _popular kids_ circle a couple years ago and have been slowly bonding ever since. She’s a bright and driven girl, heavily involved in the student government. Mike used to stare at her long, blonde ponytail in freshman year.

The car is lumbering away from the house. The muffled music fades to nothing. Snowflakes swirl and tunnel in the headlights.

They talk about the snow, about the party, about school. Halfway home, something niggles in the back of Will’s brain. Mike. The car. Driving. Shouldn’t Mike not be driving? He had about as much punch as Will did... didn’t he? Will saw him drinking out of that red cup the whole night. But Mike’s driving seems steady enough, and Will is honestly more concerned with his headache.

And anyway, they’re safe and sound by the time Mike stops in front of Will’s house and puts on the parking brake. There aren’t any other cars in the long driveway. Jonathan left for college again a few weeks ago when Christmas break ended. And his mom... He looks around at the front yard again as they climb the porch steps, as if her car will materialize. Where’s his mom, again? Is today her late shift? Yes; that’s right. She took an extra shift. Usually she doesn’t work so late, but Melvald’s extended their hours a couple years ago and the usual closing shift guy called off sick this morning.

They’ve been chatting approximately since they got in the car, but Will falls silent as he pulls his keys out of his coat pocket and manages to get the door open. He has to move deliberately to get the key into the lock. It’s finicky at the best of times, and he has to use his left hand. Not to mention that his fingers feel like they’re one tenth of the way into turning into rubber.

No one turned on any lights before they left the house; everything is hazy with blue and gray shadows when they enter. The air is chilled. The barely-discernible sounds of snow and wind fill the silence. Even Chester is quiet, giving only a twitch and a sigh from the end of the bed when they pass by his mother’s open door.

Will’s head turns towards the thermostat, but Mike passes right by and heads for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It’s a relief to sit down on a non-moving surface. The edge of the tub is cold. Will perches there without complaint. He’s deep in thought. With the rest of the house still dark, the bulb above the sink is a solitary beacon, turning the bathroom into a bubble of warm golden light. Will sets to work at wedging his shoes off as Mike gets out the first aid kit. They thump to the floor and he presses the sole of one socked foot over the cold toes of the other.

“Here.”

Mike squats beside him, and Will extends his bloody hand palm-up.

* * *

 Will is a talkative drunk.

This is a fact that Mike was vaguely aware of before. The Party doesn’t come into contact with alcohol all that often, and never in very impressive amounts. Will gets a bit chatty on the rare occasion that they do have anything to drink, though, and apparently it’s an exponential curve. He’s been chattering at Mike since they ran into each other in Justin Cobbler’s crowded living room. Mike isn’t sure Will even really knows he’s doing it. He trailed off when they entered the house, though. His hazel eyes are distant - and just a bit bloodshot - as Mike does his best to rinse off the slice across his palm.

He’s still not sure how Will managed it. Of all the things he’s said since they left the party, an explanation never crossed his lips. It’s a decent cut, though. Not deep enough for stitches - Mike hopes - but serious enough that the bleeding is only now beginning to slow. Of course, cleaning it out starts up the flow all over again.

Antiseptic stings Mike’s nose. Will hisses and shifts around on the edge of the tub, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Mike has to move carefully; he had a couple cups of that punch before filling his cup with soda instead, and that was a few hours ago. Still, his buzz hasn’t quite faded. Maybe he shouldn’t have been driving. But what was he supposed to do? Will was bleeding. He needed to get him home. And nobody was on the streets, anyway. The roads weren’t even slippery. The snow is still wet and fluffy, barely even sticking.

“Thanks.”

Mike glances up. This is a change of tone from Will’s earlier stream-of-consciousness chatter.

“For?”

Will uses his left hand to gesture at the cut, which Mike is currently dabbing with neosporin. He goes fishing for a clean bandage. The wound is too long and too deep for even the biggest bandaid in the box.

“This. An’ getting me home.” Will watches him start to unroll a long strip of bandage. Mike’s attention is split: half on Will’s words and half on boy scout meetings of days past, straining to remember the proper way to arrange the gauze. He snaps back to the present when Will speaks again, though.

“You always take really good care of me... even though I don’t deserve it.”

Something in the atmosphere has shifted. Mike moved to perch next to Will on the side of the tub as he worked on the cut, and he’s just now becoming aware of how close they are. Their knees bump, and Mike’s head nearly touches Will’s as he bends it over their hands. Now he looks up, putting them face-to-face. “What? What do you mean?”

“I’m jus’ not a very good person sometimes.”

Mike almost laughs. Then he sees the look on Will’s face, and the laugh turns into a sputter. Not only is Will completely serious; he looks almost miserable. Guilty. Like gravity is pulling all of his features towards the ground. The corners of his mouth, his eyes, his brows. Even his shoulders droop, heavy and defeated. A twinge of pain shoots through Mike’s chest. He never has liked seeing Will in distress. And this is so out of nowhere that it makes Mike shift uncomfortably on their narrow ceramic perch, unsure how to deal with the development.

Where in the hell did this come from? When they walked into the house Will was saying something about Melvald’s. Now, this. “Bullshit.” Mike can feel his face pulling into a scowl. “Bull-fucking-shit. You know that’s not true. Why’d you say that?”

Will shrugs. Smoothes his fingers clumsily over the fresh bandage. “I’m... selfish. Want things I shouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Mike is lost. Completely lost. And the otherworldly low whistle of snow blowing over the house isn’t helping. It makes the small bathroom feel twice as cramped and isolated in the dark, empty house.

Will turns a little too quickly and he winces, as if the sharp movement hurt his head. That deep, far-off look in his eyes hasn’t gone away. He seems to be giving something a thorough consideration. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, sighs, releases it, and gives a tiny shrug. When he tilts towards Mike, a little off-balance, it brings him close enough for Mike to pick up his scent over the faint tang of alcohol. Clean and earthy, even after a long day.

“How much did you have to drink?”

Mike eyes him. Curious and confused. “A fair amount. Why?”

“Probably gonna be hungover?”

He exhales and nods. With his luck, probably.

Will nods back. “Good. ‘Cause otherwise I can’t tell you.”

“Huh?”

“‘sokay right now ‘cause we’re both drunk, so we probably won’t even remember tomorrow.” Will gestures with his injured hand, wrist loose. “And I know, ‘cause Jonathan said Nancy’s a lightweight, and you’re her brother. So ‘sokay.”

Mike opens his mouth to say he’s not really that drunk, that mostly he just had soda. But Will is being so cryptic that he postpones that statement in favor of saying, “Tell me what?” His mind is combing over the conversation, trying to find any clue, and something connects. He’s not sure what it is, yet, but something is starting to twist around in his gut. Like an instinct. Or a warning. He picks his words slowly. “What... what do you want that you... shouldn’t?”

Will starts rocking slightly. A small, anxious see-sawing motion that bumps against Mike’s arm. Concern climbs up his throat and makes him dip his head to try to catch his best friend’s gaze again. Will lost that nervous tick years ago - mostly. It only ever re-surfaces when he’s _really_ jittery. Last time Mike saw him do it was when Jonathan had to drive Joyce to the ER for high blood pressure, late last May. But he’s rocking now, slowly, eyes locked on the balding bath mat at their feet.

Mike is about half a second from backpedaling. The words are already on the tip of his tongue; a noise is halfway out of his mouth. _It’s okay,_ he starts to say, _you don’t have to tell, whatever it is._ But Will beats him to it.

He curls his shoulders in, clasps his hands between his knees, and blurts it out so fast it takes Mike a few seconds to make sense of the syllables. “I - _you._ I w-want you.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second. “Always have.”

He doesn’t even understand at first. He just says, “Huh?” again, like an idiot, mind swimming around in confusion with not a lighthouse in sight.

Will is all talk, again, but now it’s rapidfire. Tense, stuttering, his slight slur growing worse as he tries to get the words out faster than his mouth can form them.

“It’s okay, I know you’re straight. I’m not gonna... I’d never touch you, Mike, I swear I never would. I’d never hurt you, I’d _never_...” He’s shaking his head emphatically, talking to the bathroom tiles, but then he looks up. “You know that, right?”

Mike, meanwhile, is only just beginning to catch up. A murky glimmer of understanding is forming, but he almost rejects it because it’s so ridiculous. Impossible, almost. Can’t be right. Can’t possibly. When he tries to talk he starts half-laughing, though, his body high on adrenaline even though his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

“What?” He tries to stop the strange, nervous giggling - he really does - but it just keeps bubbling up his throat. “What do you - me? You wan- what?” Will won’t look at him, and he manages to freeze his diaphragm in place long enough to say, “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“What do I _mean_ ?” Will frowns as if Mike is being a moron, which, to be fair, he probably is. “Like, what do I want... _with_ you?”

That glimmer of understanding pushes through again and this time it’s much harder to brush aside. Mike feels jittery. Like there are ants under his skin.

“Yeah.”

Will rubs his lips together, and when he speaks it’s to his bandaged hand in his lap. “... everything.”

That gets him to stop laughing. Outside, the wind picks up. It rattles the bathroom window.  Mike’s mind loops the words over and over in his head. It takes him a second to realize that Will is still talking.

“I just... I wish you were like me. Even if you didn’t like me back, that’s fine. I just wish I... I wish I wasn’t so. Alone. I guess.”

“You’re not alone.” It’s the only thing Mike can think to say.

Will snorts. “Mike, the only reason I’m saying any of this is ‘cause we both had...” He holds up his hands about a foot and a half apart. He grimaces. “Like... a lot to drink. So it doesn’t matter. ‘Cause even if you’re mad at me at least you won’t remember tomorrow. And we’ll go back to normal.”

Mike feels numb, and his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, but he starts to mumble, “I’m not ma-”

“It’s okay if you are. I wouldn’t blame you. I know it’s disgusting.”

“Will, no -” His voice - “Stop. I’m not -” His voice is shaking. “disgusted by you.” Hands shaking. “I’m not.”

Will turns on him, suddenly intense - “Really? Even though I like you?” Mike opens his mouth with no idea what he’s going to say, but Will talks over whatever would have come out. His eyes are bright, cheeks much redder than normal alcohol-flush. He seems to be on some sort of roll, like he can’t stop talking now that he’s started. He seems almost unstable. “Even though a fucking fairy wants to kiss you?”

Mike hesitates, lost and confused and totally at a loss for words, and Will turns away with a small, sad scoff.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He should probably say something, but he’s too stunned. Not that it’s - not that Will - well, Mike has wondered before, of course - only briefly! But he - why him? Why Mike? Is this even happening?

He’s been silent for far too long, and - fuck, he looks like he’s going to cry. What the fuck. How the fuck did they get here? What is going on? What is he supposed to do?

“It’s -” Mike’s hands lift to his face, pull over his mouth and chin as if he’s trying to wipe something off. “Look, maybe we can deal with this tomorrow.” Tomorrow. Tomorrow is good. Maybe in the morning - “It’s late. But you’re not -” His hands drop and he gestures sharply, like he’s trying to push the idea down out of the air itself. “I am _not_ disgusted by you. Okay?”

And now Will is getting mad. He stands, nearly slipping on the bath mat, and begins to pace. Mike can almost see his emotions boiling over, one after the other. The conversation is wheeling farther and farther out of either of their control.

“Stop _saying_ that!” He points at Mike accusingly. “That’s _not_ how this goes.”

“I’m just -”

“No. No. No, Mike. I know how this goes. You say, oh, it’s okay, it’s no big deal, but then you never look at me the same again. You n-n-n-” His hands start to tremble with the stutter and the pacing doubles in speed. He whirls around every time he reaches the end of his loop. “ _N-never_ let me ride along on your bike again, or hold your hand or - or - or - or sleep over at your house, because why would you?”

“N-”

“Because then I’m not just me anymore, I’m not just Will anymore, I’m _that._ ”

“Wi-”

Will starts advancing on him, taking a step with every phrase. “You say it’s okay, you say you don’t mind - _oh, we’ll deal with it tomorrow, we’ll just put this off. We’ll sleep on it. It’s fine._ Bullshit!” He’s reached Mike, and now he is crying. “And what if you do remember? Tomorrow. What if Jonathan was wrong about Wheelers being lightweights, or what if -” He cuts off with a small, angry shake of his head and a tear falls. He half-covers his face with his bandaged hand to soak it up, and his voice breaks into a hoarse whisper, almost to himself. “God, what did I do?”

Now it’s Mike’s turn to be angry. He doesn’t even know why he is, but it burns through his chest, hot and agitated. He springs to his feet and repeats his mantra, more out of stubbornness than anything else at this point. “But I’m _not!_ I’m not di-”

“Oh, really?” Will laughs harshly.

“Yes, really! I’m not!”

And suddenly Will is cold. He was boiling before, close to raging, but all at once he’s done. Cheeks wet. The green in his hazel eyes magnified with the moisture. A hard set to his expression. His voice comes out watery the first time, nearly shaking. “You would be.” And then he’s moving forward, determined, reaching. His voice goes hard and flat. “You will be.”

Two hands take the frame of Mike’s face between them, gently. One clammy, sweat-damp skin; one warm, soft cotton. The kiss is less gentle. It’s not hard or aggressive, either, but somewhere in the in-between zone of fervent and soft. His lips are hot and chapped; Mike’s breath catches hard just below his adam’s apple. Will pulls away with a shallow inhale almost immediately, before Mike can quite process what happened, and waits with his fingers still curled against Mike’s jaw.

“Hit me, damnit,” Will says at last, when Mike can do nothing but blink and stare. He hiccups through a half-sob. “Push me away, punch me in the face. Yell at me.”

“No.”

“Mike.” It’s partway between a hiss and a whisper, and Will’s head drops so Mike can only see his hair. His hands still haven’t moved. Mike can feel them shaking. It sounds like he’s about to say something else, but after a few aborted attempts at words, his face lifts and he presses up again, giving Mike time to pull away. He doesn’t.

 _I don’t know, man,_ his rational mind says, hands up in defeat. _I don’t fucking know. It’s late, I’m tired, I’m tipsy, this makes no sense. I’m out._

So Mike, with his capacity for rational thought having just abandoned him, does the only thing he can think of. He relaxes his jaw and lets Will kiss him again. And this time it lasts longer than a second. Will eases up after a minute, like he’s about to pull away, but then his chest rises in a stuttering sigh against Mike’s and he’s pressing in again with a moan.

After all the yelling, Mike is almost confused when he doesn’t get slammed against a wall or bitten or something. Not that he’s disappointed. And that’s not to say that Will isn’t pouring everything he has into this, because he clearly is. His tongue slips past Mike’s lips with obvious inexperience, but undeniable determination. He tastes like the punch at the party, saccharine-sweet and bubbly-fruity and sharp with alcohol. Hands cup to Mike’s jaw and cheek, angling him. Then they slip past his ears and into his hair. A shiver prickles its way across Mike’s scalp and down his spine. He can feel the wetness of tears pass from Will’s face to his own, hotter even than Will’s skin. Tears hot as bathwater, as flame. Somehow, it’s comforting. There was a time when Will’s skin was cold as ice to the touch. Mike is dizzy and hopelessly confused and angry and worried but this - this one little thing - is okay. Will is warm to the touch, and everything else will turn out okay. Somehow.

Just maybe not right at this moment. Because right now Will is breaking away, so abruptly that a spidersilk-fine thread of saliva bridges their lips for half a second. He glares into Mike’s eyes like he’s trying to read his mind. And Mike sees right through the steely slant of his brows. Will isn’t mad anymore, no matter how hard he’s trying to look like it. He’s scared.

But Mike? Mike is still mad.

And stubborn.

So instead of saying anything smart, or sensitive, or anything that would salvage the situation at all, he snaps, “Nope. Still not disgusted. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Surprise twitches in the skin around Will’s eyes. Curiosity might replace it, or maybe something more hopeful, but Mike doesn’t get a chance to see much of Will’s expression before it darkens again. Will looks directly at the gauntlet that Mike threw between them - and picks it up. Accepting the challenge. “Fine,” he says simply, and that’s that.

This time, he is pressed back. His ass and shoulder blades hit the slippery-cold tiles of the wall, and Will leans the whole of his body weight against him. A warm and solid mass, lined up shins-to-hips-to-shoulders. Pinning him. The sweet-tart tang of punch fills Mike’s mouth. His body jolts with a ripple of shock, acute as a small, keen knife, when he realizes that he’s not the only one who’s hard. And, oh, by the way, _that’s_ happening. His jeans are more uncomfortable by the second. If he was in any kind of logical headspace, he’d probably be spontaneously combusting with mortification. As it is, he’s not sure where his mind is. This is so far removed from normalcy - from _reality_ \- that it feels almost dreamlike. Unreal. Otherworldly. Exempt from rules, from expectations. From consequences. So maybe that’s why, when Will works his mouth against Mike’s clumsily - desperately - Mike isn’t surprised to find himself kissing back. Some of the shock has started to chip away, and now he can do more than just receive and react. He pushes back. Twines his fingers in the collar of Will’s shirt. Doesn’t think about the next moment.

Will’s anger breaks and he pulls back half an inch, breathing hard. His lips descend to Mike’s throat. Mike expects the bruises, sucked into his skin in a line, but he doesn’t expect the teeth. He protests neither.

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, and then kisses him again as if to quell any response. “I’m so sorry.”

And Mike shakes his head, and he keeps trying to say, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” because they’re the only words his dazed brain can muster.

At some point, with heroic effort, he summons up something a little more intelligent, and he mumbles it into the space between them over Will’s half-intelligible stream of words.

“This is - I shouldn’t - I’m so sorry - please -” Will is saying, starting a new train of thought every other word, and Mike is still shaking his head -

“No. No, you’re my best friend. I love you. It’ll be okay. It’s okay.”

Will gives a weak sob, and then tries to laugh. He looks like someone slapped him in the face. Clearly, Mike chose his words poorly. He’s not even entirely sure what he said. Just anything to take away that fucking _sadness_ in Will’s voice.

Maybe words are a bad idea right now.

He’s the first to lean in this time, and Will closes in to accept the kiss without hesitation. He’s back to halfway-aggressive now. All clutching hands and small, throaty sounds that he no longer bothers to suppress.

They’ve left the bathroom. Will paws at the lightswitch over Mike’s shoulder and they stumble through the dark to his room. The backs of Mike’s knees hit the mattress and Will cries out as he catches them with his bandaged hand. But it doesn’t slow him down. Will has endured far more pain than this simple cut, Mike knows. The echoes of his screams slip through the back of Mike’s mind. He’s never been able to forget. He wishes he could. He pulls Will hard against him, tracing the slick contour of Will’s incisors with the tip of his tongue.

It’s the sound of the door that sends them jolting apart. Mike’s head whips around, but the bedroom door is firmly shut; it was the front door that opened and closed. Joyce returning from her late shift. Mike’s heart pounds hard enough to pump fresh adrenaline through his body in hard _whoosh_ es of blood. The bubble of dreamlike unreality pops. He can almost hear it. A small, sharp sound. Like the snap of a twig.

And all at once, reality returns.

* * *

 Will wakes up alone.

He’s not sure why this is his first observation, but it is. Even before the throbbing ache in his skull hits him; before he tries to swallow and encounters a mouth and throat dry as cotton; before he even tries to squint through the morning sunlight cheerfully piercing his retinas. All of that hits him just a half second after he notes the emptiness of his bed.

Mike. That’s who his brain is looking for. He rubs his fingers over his eyes - and winces. One hand is wrapped in a bandage. His palm aches and smarts. The cut. The cut, and the car ride, and the first aid kit, and -

Will lurches over the side of his bed fast enough to send his head spinning. Mike isn’t there. No sleeping bag. No mop of sleep-tousled dark hair. No Mike.

Of course not.

Will lies back down, carefully, head spinning and heart pounding. He feels sick.

_No._

His fingertips press against his eyes until stars whirl against the dark backdrop of his eyelids.

_No. God, no._

It’s fuzzy, but coming back. Things he said. Did. The pit of his stomach aches. He wants to cry, but he’s not sure there’s enough moisture in his body for tears. He runs over the memory with gritted teeth. Again, again. It could have been a dream. Or imagination.

But the bandage.

The bandage is real. The knot is sloppy, and the whole configuration isn’t quite right. Mike did that. Mike did that, and then Will kissed him. Told him everything.

And now he’s gone.


	2. Peachy Keen

“Will, your action?”

Eyes unfocused, fingers laced together, Will stares somewhere beyond the poster on the wall. Everyone’s shoes were kicked off in a haphazard pile by the Wheelers’ front door, so his socks scuff along the carpet under the table. One socked foot bumps up against Mike’s, then jerks away as if the touch hurt. Mike half-glances sideways. Will is slumped in his chair, tee shirt and shorts rumpled, one hand toying with the army-green cord bracelet that rests around the opposite wrist.

“Will?” Mike tries again. Will returns to the present with a little jump, and without warning their eyes meet. It’s jarring. They haven’t really been meeting each other’s eyes lately, and the full direct focus of those hazel eyes makes his heart kick up just a notch or two. “Your action?”

“Jeez, would you come outta the archives?” Dustin says, and leans across the table to knock on the side of Will’s head. “What are you doing in there? We’re kind of under attack here.”

“Yeah. No, I know.” Will hunches over the board, examining the configuration of figures. “Uh. Can I detect evil?”

“Roll.”

The old plastic die clatters over the surface of the table. The Party leans in, eager, as it spins and then settles. Max groans as it lands on a 3.

Summer vacation. The Wheelers’ basement. 7:05pm. It feels like any other summer - like this could be any normal Saturday, huddling in the basement to escape the lingering heat, waiting for the pizza guy to show. And for the rest of the Party, Mike supposes, it is.

It’s been something like four months since the hickeys faded entirely, but Mike still feels like the marks are on his skin. He still remembers the whoops and sniggers of the Party when they saw the next day. They jostled him, thumped him on the back. Congratulated him. They thought he hooked up with a girl at the house party before driving Will home, and he let them think it. They wouldn’t stop hounding him for weeks, trying to get him to say who it was. Will, on the other hand, was pointedly mum on the subject.

Will remembers. Mike can tell that he remembers - if only vaguely. After Mike left that night, tumbling out of Will’s bedroom window and praying that Joyce hadn’t noticed his car in the shadows of the front yard, Will avoided him like the plague for several weeks. Every time Mike turned the corner of tried to catch his eye, he would slip away like a spooked cat, hackles up, silent. After a few days, Mike figured, _fine. You don’t wanna talk to me, fine._ And he stopped trying to catch Will. It got to the point where El threatened to force them to hug and make up. The Party assumed they had some big fight, and they all sent Mike meaningful glares for weeks. Which is a little unfair, in Mike’s opinion. It’s not his fault. Not entirely, at least. They didn’t need to act like he was the one causing all this.

But, not that he’d admit it to them, they were kind of right. Mike was the one that had to man up and approach Will, after nearly a month of mutual cold shouldering. He didn’t know how to say _sorry._ How to fix it, make it better. He didn’t know how to say a lot of things, so he didn’t. He just popped up at Will’s shoulder, probably out of the blue, and invited him over like the last month never happened. And things went back to normal. Almost. That lingering tension never quite left, as evidenced by their reluctance to really look each other in the eye anymore. Trying to hold Will’s gaze is like trying to force together two opposing ends of a magnet. Things aren’t _quite_ the same as they were before the... well, before. But Mike decided long ago that the clear wisest choice was to pretend he had no memory of anything that had happened, and Will followed suit.

The problem is, Mike does remember. He remembers all too well. And he has questions. That’s the real problem, actually. Not that it happened, but that he can’t let it go. Sure, it happened. It happened. That kind of stuff happens all the time. Right? Two best friends get a little too drunk, and... Look, fooling around isn’t a capital crime, okay? At least, it wouldn’t be if Mike could just _let it go,_ but for some reason he can’t. He can’t just shrug and move on, tra-la-la, and leave that night behind him like a blip in the rearview mirror. He has questions. About what exactly happened, about his best friend - and worst, about his own reaction. Mike isn’t stupid; he knows he wasn’t just playing along.

It doesn’t mean anything. Mike knows that. It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t make him a... well, not that there’s anything wrong with that. There’s not. There’s nothing wrong with Will, nothing wrong with being what he is, it’s just that _Mike’s_ not. He has no doubts about that, really. It’s just that it was _Will._ That’s all it was. If it had been anyone else - some random guy at the party, or even Dustin or Lucas - that never would have happened. Never, ever. But it wasn’t some other guy, it was Mike’s best friend - Will in his winter flannel, with sketching charcoal smudged under his fingernails, with those same green-brown eyes that first cautiously met Mike’s on the playground almost thirteen years ago. It’s just that Will has always been his weak spot.

Mike has questions. He wants answers. And now, after nearly four months, he has a plan.

* * *

 The cut is little more than a pinkish line on Will’s palm by now. It healed slowly - honestly, it might have needed a stitch or two after all - but it did heal. It doesn’t hurt anymore, not even when he presses hard onto the very center.

His mom found the first aid stuff the next morning, strewn all over the bathroom. He had to show her his bandaged hand, tell her he got cut trying to clean up some broken glass. The truth. He didn’t tell her that it was Mike that applied the bandage, Mike that drove Will home and listened to his drunk self ramble, Mike that _wasn’t there_ in the morning.

Mike remembers. He has to - right? Will was much drunker than him, and _he_ remembers every excruciating detail. The bandage on his hand, soft and a little too tight. The tremor in his throat as he made his confession. Mike’s shocked, almost nervous laughter. The anger that filled up Will’s chest and drove him to his feet, pacing, pointing, accusing. The old threadbare bath mat slipping under his feet, nearly sending him to the cold, tiled floor. And Mike. Worst of all, he remembers Mike. Mike’s ribs under the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, bumping under Will’s fingers as he slid his hands down his best friend’s torso. Mike’s hair, rumpled and fallen a tad flat by the end of the day, thick between Will’s fingers. Mike’s artfully curved cheeks blotched blood-red, his eyes dark and hooded, his little gasp of surprise when Will pushed him backwards. His _mouth -_

Will curls in on himself a little, shoulders drawing forward in combined guilt and an echo of pleasure at the memory. He remembers Mike’s lips yielding under his without an ounce of resistance. Mike’s breath catching hard in his throat, audible. The stale-sugar taste of soda on Mike’s tongue, and - _and those words._ The words Will hasn’t been able to get out of his head in months, that taunt him, tear him up inside every time. Every single time. _No, you’re my best friend. I love you._ What a cruel joke. Not on Mike’s part, exactly; just on behalf of the universe.

_You’re my best friend. I love you._

I love you, but as a friend. I love you, but not like that. I love you, but I can never look at you the same after this. I love you, so I’ll put up with this. I love you, but no fucking way.

And then, if there was any doubt as to Mike’s meaning, Will woke up alone the next morning.

So Will kept quiet. He stayed away for a few weeks, not wanting to face that conversation, not wanting to see the hurt or anger in his best friend’s eyes. When Mike finally cornered him and asked him over, he smiled and stuck to their usual script and prayed that Mike would do the same. And he did. Small favors.

That’s the way it’s been since. Everything proceeding as normal, no hint that anything unusual or untoward occurred in the Byers bathroom late at night on the snowiest day in February. But every once in a while, Will stutters. He’ll be going about as usual, following the old routine, and suddenly he’ll glance up and find Mike’s eyes on him and his fingers go all rubbery. And all at once it feels like he’s just going through the motions, reading off a script. Mechanical. Hollow. Almost like one of those old cartoons, or a tattered storybook. _Hello. Hey. How are you? I’m fine, thanks. And you? Oh, I’m all right. Lovely weather. Yes, thank goodness for summer. Did you try the cheddar rolls?_ And the whole time Will just wants to grab him, shake him, to yell in his face, _just stop pretending! Just say what you mean, tell me you hate me! Tell me why you can’t look me in the eyes anymore!_

“Will?”

Will emerges from deep thought with a painful jolt to find Mike looking at him, waiting. Deep brown eyes drilling straight through him as if he knows exactly what Will was just thinking.

“Your action?”

* * *

 The house is quiet when Will arrives. That’s a surprise. He expected to step in and find Dustin and Lucas squabbling, El raiding the pantry, Max choosing music. So, when Mike opens the door with a grin and makes a weird noise by way of greeting - inside joke, long story - Will feels just a little off-kilter to discover that they’re alone.

Then again, Mike didn’t say anything about inviting the others, now that he thinks back. Just that his parents would be out of town for a few days - something about Ted’s work - and they took Holly with them. Nancy is staying with a friend near her university for the week, leaving Mike alone. _Perfect sleepover opportunity,_ Mike had said, grinning, and Will just assumed that when he said _sleepover_ he meant _sleepover with everyone._ They haven’t had a sleepover one-on-one since before that one night - in fact, Will isn’t sure if they’ve even been alone together since then. They’ve hung out, sure, just like always - but with the Party. Always with the Party. Or at school. Or with El. Or with parents or siblings nearby. Maybe Mike hasn’t wanted to be caught alone with Will, and frankly, Will doesn’t blame him.

But now it seems that Mike has abandoned that rule.

It puts Will on edge, at first, but after an hour passes and nothing happens he relaxes. It’s nice, actually. Hanging out together, just them, like they always used to. Foraging for leftovers, talking about any unrelated subject that comes to mind, playing around. Will only hesitates just before they head down to the basement for the evening, when Mike stops in the living room and says, “We could be stupid.”

Will hovers in the middle of the room, suspicious. “What?” he says eventually.

With an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, Mike strides to the liquor cabinet between the living and dining room and pulls open the doors. Will follows uncertainty, stopping behind Mike as he scans the contents.

“Hmm... here.” He reaches in, arm disappearing up to the elbow. “This one’s already open. Perfect.”

Out comes a big, solid bottle of peach schnapps. He holds it up for Will’s inspection, and Will chews on his lip, of two minds. “Mm...” he hums, and Mike puts the bottle down on the carpet.

“Too sweet? Okay, what about...” He digs around. Glass clinks within the wooden cabinet. “This.”

Another bottle, smaller and blockier. Dark spiced brandy.

Will shrugs. And then, because Mike is still waiting for an answer, he nods. “Yeah. Great.”

He’s not nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous. This is fine; he just has to stop second-guessing himself. _What-ifs_ keep floating through his head, like he’s not sure he can trust himself after last time, but he shakes it off. He’s just having an illicit night of parent-less fun with his best friend - the oldest and most noble of teenage traditions. There’s nothing weird about this. He’s being stupid.

And maybe - no. He won’t even let himself think, _hope_ what he had been about to think. That maybe - just maybe - it’ll happen again. That Mike, drunk on the sweet-strong schnapps, will lean over, close enough for Will to feel Mike’s breath on his ear. _You know,_ Mike would say, _I didn’t mean what I said last time. Not like that. You_ are _my best friend, but... maybe..._ And he’d lean even closer and - _no._ He won’t do this. He will not. That kind of thinking is what got him into this whole situation in the first place. He fucked up bad last time, and letting his stupid brain think like _that_ is exactly why. No more. He won’t do it this time. He’s gonna have fun, and spend time with his best friend, and that’s it.

“You sure your mom won’t notice?” he says, trailing after Mike on the way to the kitchen.

“Nah,” Mike tosses over his shoulder. “It’s fine. Plus, when else are we gonna get an opportunity like this? My parents never leave town.” He nudges open the pantry with a foot. “Chips or popcorn?”

* * *

 Mike is gonna need to be drunk for this.

He needs answers. And he’s not exactly gonna get them by just asking. _Hey, Will, what’s up? Been wondering something, actually. So, you are queer, yes? That would be question number one, I suppose. Just to be completely clear. And, uh, how did you_ know _you were? Asking for a friend, namely, me. I’m just wondering because I think I probably should have hated kissing you, but actually now I keep wondering if you’d ever do it again. And, boy, I’ll tell ya, it sure has thrown me for a loop! Lots of long sleepless nights, existential crises, you know. The usual. So, anywho, what about it? Care to give it another go so I can puzzle out whatever the hell my brain has been doing to me lately? Do me a favor, ol’ buddy ol’ pal?_

Yeah. No.

So, yeah. He’s gonna need to be drunk for this. However it goes. Even if - _especially_ if Will shoves him away and yells at him. He doesn’t know if he wants to have that conversation sober.

They take their filched alcohol, along with two cups, a bottle of coke, and snacks, and head to the basement with their haul. There they close the door behind them out of habit, plug in the colorful string of lights that has been a fixture of the room for years, and start arguing about games and movies. Mike pushes the coffee table out of the way; Will throws blankets and pillows and two sleeping bags onto the floor. They load up _Legend of Zelda_ first. They also have _Super Dodge Ball_ , as was gifted to Mike last Christmas, but they’re saving that for later when they’re tipsy and everything is funny. The two-player mode will be more fun then.

Will seems to be pacing himself at first, only tilting little dollops of brandy into his coke as they pass the remote back and forth. But when Mike gets tipsy enough to start giggling at his increasing frequency of dumb mistakes in _Zelda_ , Will starts pouring more freely. It’s all downhill from there. An hour later they’re both giggling and red-cheeked. Half an hour after that, tongues and throats burning just a little from the spiced brandy, they’re half-leaning on each other. The game is paused in front of them; they never quite did get around to loading up the second one. Mike has the schnapps bottle swinging loosely from one hand, and he takes a short sip to punctuate his sentence.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, just a tad out of breath from laughing. “So, you’re telling me that the whole time he didn’t even notice?”

“No, I’m serious. I don’t know how he didn’t feel it on his head, I mean, it was like five pounds.”

Mike laughs through another sip and then passes the bottle over to Will, who accepts it with a sort of lazy grace. Mike watches him tilt it up to his own lips.

The game has been on pause for a few minutes now, controller on the carpet in front of them. They’re on the floor, backs braced against the couch, legs sprawled out in front of them at odd angles.

Earlier Will seemed to be holding back, like he thought they might get in trouble somehow, but that’s gone now. Mike’s head is swimming with the alcohol, hands warm, tongue a little slower than his thoughts, and he’s watching Will’s mouth move as he tells a story about something that happened in track last semester.

 _This is it,_ something in the back of his mind says, like a little poke at his ribs. He lets out a breath. Even with the buzz, he still can’t push down the fizzle of nerves. Will is relaxed beside him, reclining loosely against the front of the couch, close enough that their arms and elbows keep touching. Close enough that Mike can feel his warmth. Mike’s tongue rubs against the back of his teeth. He thought he’d say something - you know, to lead up to it. That had been his plan. But now that the moment has come he doesn’t think he’d know how to segue into it even if he was sober.

_Hey, so, about that night in February - you know the one. After that house party Max dragged us to. About that. You know, we could - yeah? I mean, maybe. If you wanted to. Do you want to? I want to, I mean, if..._

Nothing works. Nothing sounds right. So after what feels like hours of deliberation, Mike still hasn’t made a move. No rush of brave action. He keeps envisioning himself taking a big swig, setting the bottle down, taking a deep breath and swooping in for a firm kiss to set things in motion. He’ll do that. He will. The next time Will pauses... Actually, no the next time he turns just right, or looks this way...

It’s no use. Mike just can’t summon up the courage. And honestly, he keeps getting a little distracted. Will has been chattering on, like he always seems to when he’s drunk, and Mike keeps watching the light play in those deep hazel eyes. Not everyone would notice that they’re really hazel, he thinks. Most people would see brown. You have to get within a certain distance to notice the splashes of mossy green around his pupils. Mike watches Will’s eyes as he talks, and then his hair - which is falling onto his forehead by now, and Mike wants to reach out and gently push it back - and then the shape of his jaw, which has lost its baby fat in the past couple years, and then he’s looking at Will’s eyes again and now Will is looking back. And Mike realizes that Will stopped talking a minute ago, and he’s waiting for some kind of response. Mike’s pulse ticks up another notch.

Will’s throat moves in a swallow, and Mike realizes all at once that he’s drifted very close - close enough to pick up on the smell of Will’s soap, or maybe it’s his shampoo. Clean and light and vaguely earthy. Mike freezes, unsure, teetering, and Will’s gaze flickers down for half a moment. Like he glanced at Mike’s lips. Normally that thought would make him withdraw, pull back, start the game again and pretend nothing happened, but not now. He has a mission.

Will’s own lips are flushed red from drinking and talking. His voice comes out dry and a little uneven when he whispers, “Mike?”

Mike takes a half-breath, his lips clicking as they part - but he still has no words, nothing to say. So instead he tilts his head and - and Will draws back just a fraction of an inch, his own breath catching this time. Mike almost turns away, stomach squeezing, but then Will lifts his face and they meet in the middle.

* * *

 It’s so different. So, so different from that first hard, angry, desperate kiss. This one is slow - so slow that Will almost wonders if they’ll ever make contact. But they do, and this time it starts out close-mouthed and soft. Jaw loose, Mike’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, the glass bottle wobbling a little as he sets it on the floor.

Will pulls away first, slowly, just an inch or so. Head reeling with peach schnapps and at least a dozen conflicting questions and thoughts and impulses. He wants to say _why are you doing this,_ he wants to ask, _why did you leave that night,_ and he wants to say, _stop, I can’t do this again,_ and _finally,_ and _you’re so stupid, Michael, but I love you._

“What...?” he whispers, and Mike makes a noise to respond -

“I jus-”  

Will cuts him off with a hand before he can reply, fingers shooting up to land over Mike’s mouth. Mike goes silent, and Will’s hand drops.

“Don’t,” Will says, and kisses him again.

_Don’t talk. Don’t say anything, not just yet. Don’t tell me this is just for fun, for adrenaline, meaningless. Don’t tell me you’re just kissing your queer best friend because I’m here and it’s convenient. Not yet. Just let me pretend, just for a moment._

When Mike first tilted forward it was almost like an accident, like he didn’t _mean_ to end up that close, like it could have been pure happenstance that their lips touched. Now it’s more deliberate. Earnest. Will decides _fuck it_ and pushes himself closer, across the half foot of carpet between them, and hooks one arm around Mike’s torso to pull him closer. He keeps expecting this to end, to pop like a soap bubble, abrupt. He expects Mike to break away, or even for _himself_ to suddenly flinch back. Like last time. Neither of them does, though, and the hesitant press of lips eases into something more languid.

It’s Mike that deepens the kiss, parting his lips, inviting, and Will presses into him almost gratefully. Because, why not? This is all too likely the last chance he’ll ever get to do this with Mike, before he has to force himself to move on. The last few months have already been a shitshow. May as well end with a bang, right? So Will, drunk on sweet schnapps and spiced brandy, sinks into it whole and entirely. Half lost in the kiss, half lost in his own daydream superimposed over real life. Pretending that this is real. He slips his tongue past Mike’s lips, for only the second time ever, and tastes bubbly-sharp peach in his mouth. And Mike actually moans - a weak, raw sound that almost definitely never would have come out of him sober. Mike _moans,_ and pushes back. And for a moment, Will barely has to pretend. Because Mike is slipping his hands around Will’s shoulders, pulling him closer, letting Will wind his fingers up into the thick dark almost-curls, letting Will press him back against the couch, letting him catch Mike’s lower lip and work it between his teeth. And Will is _definitely_ very drunk, because he doesn’t stop himself, even when he breaks off to nuzzle along the length of Mike’s jaw, even when he starts to say things he didn’t mean to.

“Why didn’t you stay?” Will slurs, mumbling against Mike’s jaw right below his ear.

Mike hums, “Hm?” before he seems to process what Will said. He rocks back, unsteady, and looks Will in the eyes.

Will ducks his head. There’s a question in Mike’s gaze, but he can’t repeat that. He only said it the first time because he didn’t really mean to. Eventually he lifts one shoulder in a kind of shrug and mumbles, “You didn’t have to - to leave. You know. You could’ve stayed.”

He shouldn’t have said that. Mike is tensing beneath him - since when have Will’s knees been planted on either side of his thighs?

“Damnit,” Will hisses, and Mike looks up at him with those goddamn dark eyes. He always does this. Will _always_ does this. Ruins something good by wanting too much. Embarrassed, and angry at himself, he pulls back only to be stopped by Mike’s gentle grip on his shoulders.

“Hey.”

Mike’s hands slide from his shoulders to his ribs, pads of his fingers pressing at either side of Will’s spine like he’s afraid he’ll disappear otherwise. Which is funny, really, since it was Mike who disappeared last time. Will’s shoulders curl at the memory of waking up, alone in that bed, knowing all at once just how badly he fucked up.

“Wait,” Mike is saying, and Will fixes him with a stare that’s dangerously close to a pout. Mike shakes his head and then winces a little, like he forgot he was drunk. “I just -”

“Just what, couldn’t trust me?” Will knows he’s slurring, can feel it around his tongue, but he’s too high strung to slow down. “Couldn’t stand to be around me after -”

“I trust you.” Mike mumbles it through a scowl, petulant, like when he was a five year old with gap teeth.

Will laughs. “I’m sure. You can barely look at me - look at me!”

Brown eyes flash up, mere inches away and wide with surprise.

“This is the first time we’ve been alone together in months.” That spark of fire has already gone out, leaving Will slumped and half in Mike’s lap. Mike’s hands still haven’t released from his sides, keeping him from moving away. “You won’t even look at me. Like hell you trust me.”

The seconds stretch on, with only the game’s pause screen to fill the silence. At last, Mike gives a small scoff.

“You know, you were the one that started avoiding me. I went looking for you the next _day_ and you wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

A little wave of shock runs through Will like cold water. _He did?_

With a sigh, Will flops backwards and fishes the bottle from the carpet - where, miraculously, it’s still standing upright. He takes a sip and hands it to Mike.

“Why’d you do this?”

“Huh?”

Will gestures, limply, like he’s tired. He is tired. “This. This whole... thing.”

Mike stammers, puffs out his cheeks, and then shrugs. Will just waits. He needs this answer. After a lot of hemming and hawing, Mike manages to spit out, “I just... I dunno, I... I know I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

A glare. He’s annoyed now. “I know.”

“So why did you?”

Mike tosses his hands in the air, sloshing the schnapps so dangerously that Will takes it from him. “I don’t know, Will, just -”

Something glimmers in the back of Will’s brain - something about the way Mike groaned when he first climbed into his lap, something about _I went looking for you,_ something about the way he still hasn’t pushed Will away. “You wanted to.”

It’s almost - but not quite - a question. Will’s heart is kicking against his ribs, staccato, and then he sees the panic flashing in the unfocused depths of Mike’s eyes. Will tilts a little closer, intense and searching, not caring that he’s right in Mike’s face now.

“You wanted to.” This time it’s certain. And Mike stammers and Will presses harder because he needs answers - “Why?”

“I don’t know, Will.” Every word ground out, like it hurts.

“Yes, you do, you -”

“I don’t know!”

The shout seems to echo in the dim light of the basement, bouncing between the blueish glow of the screen and the pinkish glow of the string lights above them. Will lapses back, finally, nearly falling onto the carpet. Hands shaking, something like fear and triumph and disbelief all mixed up in his throat, rising. Mike’s shoulders rise with a hard breath, and then again with an uncomfortable shrug. It’s like he’s curling up on himself, hugging his knees, avoiding Will’s eyes. His lips are still dark from kissing, and Will feels a tremble of guilt cut through him when those lips press together like he’s trying to contain some thought or emotion.

“I don’t know.” Mike’s fingers twist and splay over his knees. “I’m not - I’m _not._ ”

_Not queer, not like that, not like Will._

Will recognizes the boundary, recognizes that near-break in Mike’s voice, and he retreats. He tucks it away in the back of his mind for safekeeping, nods, and starts to get up when Mike catches his wrist and pulls him back to another kiss. Gentle, this time, and Will obliges without struggle until Mike uncurls again. It takes a few minutes to work themselves back up to where they were, and this time, Will swallows all the questions on his tongue. Those can wait. Right now, he has this - and he’s not letting go of a single moment while it lasts.

They don’t traditionally hit the hay at sleepovers until sometime in the wee hours of the morning, but it’s barely midnight when they crawl into their sleeping bags. Mike made the harrowing journey up the stairs to the kitchen a few minutes ago to fetch cups of water, insisting that it’s supposed to help with hangovers in the morning. Now he’s returned, and when he collapses into his sleeping bag with a groan, he lands barely six inches from where Will is lying. Their legs would touch if it weren’t for the double layer of padded material.

Will wakes up with stiff limbs, a pounding headache, and Mike’s elbow prodding into his side. He dislodges Mike’s arm, almost smiles, and then buries himself in the darkness of the sleeping bag and promptly passes out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! (I marked this complete at 2 chapters but like. Anything's possible.)  
> Please do let me know what you thought! Hope it lived up to the first chapter!


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